What Happened Next
by Totopup
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft are dealing with Sherlock's death. Short chapters, could be standalones but they do all link together vaguely. Reviews appreciated a lot!
1. Silence

The worst gap for John was the silence. The unyeilding, blank silence. He sat in 221b. On his chair. Sherlock's chair sat untouched. All Sherlock's things had been untouched until Mrs Hudson had moved his science equipment away. John didn't know where. Some medical school. John didn't really care much.  
>"John! There's a man here to see you! Why don't you answer your doorbell?" Mrs Hudson yelled from downstairs. John had been so deep in grief he hadn't heard the noise of the bell.<br>"John." a small, posh voice sounded from the door. John recognised the voice instantly; though he wasn't sure what from.  
>The man moved round and when John saw his face, he knew. Henry Knight. From Baskerville.<br>"Hello." he said, and John didn't answer.  
>"Oh sorry, yeah, hi." John suddenly said, realising he was being rude, and jumping up to shake Henry's hand.<br>"May I..." Henry indicated Sherlock's chair. John nodded, but cringed as he sat. That was Sherlock's chair, and John had to fight off the desire to shove Henry off.  
>"I'm sorry." Henry said quietly. They sat there in silence for a while.<br>"How've you been since the case?" John asked, attempting conversation.  
>Henry shrugged. "Better. The effects are wearing off. The doctor said there would be lasting effects though. Like paranoia." as if to illustrate his point, he looked around nervously, his hands figeting with the ends of his jacket.<br>John almost wanted to ask Henry straight why he had come. But figuring that was rude, he just stuck with silence.  
>"I actually wanted to ask..." he tilted his head slightly. "Whether you would come with me somewhere."<br>John frowned. Where? Where could be so important that Henry had to take him there? Right then? He asked him.  
>"I can't tell you. It's getting dark, we must leave now."<br>Henry got up and looked back, walking towards the door.  
>"Are you coming?"<br>John sighed as he stood up. He had nothing better to do. Why not?  
>After a long, cold and damp walk through London back streets (having doubled back about 5 times and being informed by Henry twice that he was very sorry, but they were utterly and completely lost), they came to a small square; basically a very wide alley with bins and litter everywhere.<br>"Look at the wall." Henry instructed, so John obliged.  
>In bright yellow paint there were written five words.<br>I believe in Sherlock Holmes.  
>John gasped and his bad leg (his limp had been slowly coming back recently) almost gave out on him. He ended up falling down and sitting cross-legged on the floor, unaware of the mud and God knows what else.<br>Someone else had written this. Someone else believed in Sherlock too. John felt too many emotions. Anger, embarrassment, happiness, sadness, guilt. John wasn't alone. Whoever wrote this, be them gay or straight or fat or thin or funny or shy or black or white John respected them. He respected them almost as much as he did Sherlock.  
>"Do you know who wrote this?" John asked quietly.<br>"No." Henry answered. "I just thought..."  
>John nodded. <p>


	2. Lost

The worst thing for Lestrade was the sense that he was untterly, completely, lost. It had come to him a few days after Sherlock's death, when a particularly baffling case had come up about the apparent suicide of a young girl. Lestrade had automatically thought on the scene to call Sherlock but upon taking out his phone he had remembered that Sherlock wouldn't pick up.  
>He would never pick up again.<br>And that had been the moment when the whole reality of Sherlock's death had hit Greg Lestrade. He had almost started crying in the middle of a crime scene had he not been able to mumble something about the loo before the hurricane of water seemed to reach his eyes, choking him. He felt as if he was going to drown in the water streaming down his face, dripping off his chin and rolling down onto his collar. He didn't know how long he spent in the toilet, but it must have been quite a while; people had given him funny looks when he had emerged, slightly reddened eyes and a wet collar.  
>That night, when he was about to go back to an empty flat, Donovan had approached him with a graffiti artist crime.<br>"Not our division." Lestrade grumbled, then winced as he remembered the last time he had said that.  
>"No, it's just the officer on the case thought you might have wanted to look at the pictures."<br>Lestrade sighed, but accepted the photos.  
>There were five words written in bright pink paint on a concrete wall.<br>I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

It was frigid out, but Lestrade hadn't bothered to put a coat on and had regretted it instantly. He had recognised the concrete wall and wanted to see the paint himself. He didn't really care that it was a crime. Not this time.  
>He hadn't mentioned it to John for fear of ruining the friendship between them, but Lestrade had began to doubt Sherlock's ability's. He could read your whole life story in 5 seconds and your brother's in 10. He could solve almost any case with the tiniest of clues. He never slept, never ate, never socialised. And the little, niggling, ever-there part of Greg was always telling him 'It's not true. Sherlock put those cases there. He created Moriarty for entertainment. He tricked you, and John, and everyone else. He was a fraud. And you know it.'. He had tried to ignore it. But he couldn't.<br>And there it was. The flourescent pink contrasted horribly with the dark grey concrete, but to Lestrade it was beautiful. It had given him the power to destroy the seeds of doubt that Moriarty had sown inside him that had grown at alarming paces. He had hope, something to go on. Greg Lestrade believed in Sherlock Holmes. 


	3. Smile

The thing Molly missed was Sherlock's smile. Not his fake one, the one he did so he looked normal. His real one. The one he always did when he was with John. It wasn't actually a smile. It was more of an aura that he had when he was happy. And Molly had never, and will never, come across anything that made her as happy as Sherlock's smile had.  
>That was how she noticed Sherlock looking sad. He never smiled anymore. And that was how Sherlock had told Molly to give him the toxin from the Rhodedendron Ponticum, make sure there was a truck for him to jump into and one of his homeless network to run John over. It had worked. Molly knew Sherlock was alive. But he wasn't acting like she knew he was.<br>The hospital hadn't changed. Nothing had. Bodies came, bodies went. People died. People lived. People toddled on with their boring little lives, with not even an idea of the depressed and torn-apart woman Molly Hooper had become.  
>"Miss Hooper. Tell me, where was the body found again?" DI Dimmock asked.<br>"Umm... Oh yeah, on the balcony."  
>"Hhmm. Interesting."<br>He thought for a moment.  
>"Mollyyy! We need you!" someone yelled, and Molly covered up the body and went to help.<br>"New body, just in. Male, 37, 5.7", 20 stone." her collegue, Abby, told her. She hadn't known Sherlock.  
>"I need you to confirm his death for me. Rather strange way of death, apparently. Had something scratched into his side then bled to death."<br>Molly was puzzled, but she wheeled him over and uncovered him. On his back, there was nothing wrong. Just an ordinary man, slightly overweight. She did the usual inspections, pulse, breathing, all the stupid regulation stuff that only told them what you already knew. Then she turned him onto his front.  
>There was a message scratched into his side. Just under his armpit, going all the way down to the small of his back.<br>Hello, Molly Hooper.  
>She gasped and stumbled back, hitting into the wall. Who did this? Her immediate thought was Sherlock, but he wouldn't have killed someone just to say hello. Unless the man had been already dead.<br>"OK. If it was Sherlock, then he can't have bled to death. So what was the real cause of death?" she said rather shakily to herself. There was no bullet hole or other gash or cut. So something subtle like... Poison.  
>"OK, so blood test." she, as carefully as she could, extracted the needed amount of blood and tested it, going off to get lunch while she waited for the tet to work.<br>Molly hadn't been eating amazingly well since Sherlock. She just hadn't been hungry. It was mostly coffee. And tea. Occasionally a proper meal. Mostly snacks.  
>"Want something?" Abby asked, about to go out and get lunch. Molly shook her head.<br>"You need to eat something. You didn't have lunch yesterday. Or the day before. Come on, Molly." she tried to pursuade her.  
>"I'm not hungry."<br>"You know, that's exactly what Sherlock used to say."  
>"How do you know that?"<br>"You told me. You didn't used to stop going on about him." she smiled. "As long as your OK."  
>"Yeah. Bye." Molly said, and Abby went.<br>After a coffee Molly went back and got the results. Molly had suspected it to be Prolixin and she was right. A virtually undetectable poison, it was easy to administer make it look like a heart attack or the like.  
>"So it was Sherlock." Molly smiled. So Sherlock did think about her.<br>Then she noticed the writing on the other side of the body. This was in different writing to the one she had seen earlier. It said 3 simple words:  
>Moriarty was real.<p> 


	4. Loss

The worst thing for Mycroft was the unexplainable sense of loss. Unexplainable because he knew Sherlock wasn't dead. He had never liked his brother. But somewhere deep inside he felt a panging sense of loss that was ripping him apart, purely because he had never experienced it before and didn't know what to do.  
>"Sir. We have an urgent message from one Irene Adler." Jonathan announced from the doorway, handing Mycroft a sheet of paper. Jonathan was a good boy. Been on the job for a week. Mycroft didn't think he was right for the job. He'd ask someone to tell him nicely.<br>"Yes, thank you Jonathan." the boy walked away, smiling.  
>'''I send my regards. Me and Sherlock could have been friends,''' Mycroft snorted at this, "But circumstances intervened. I hope John is OK. Irene x.'''Mycroft sighed. Irene was annoying.<br>He threw the papers across his desk, rubbing his fingers in his eyes. He hadn't slept last night. Or the night before. Or the night before. He hadn't eaten since yesterday breakfast.  
>"Sherlock isn't dead you idiot!" he yelled at himself, before quickly composing himself. He mustn't seem upset, people will think less of him. And his brother WAS NOT DEAD.<br>"Sir." it was Jonathan again. Mycroft sighed.  
>"Yes."<br>"DI Lestrade to see you, sir."  
>Lestrade walked in, red-faced and shivering from the cold.<br>"You need to come and see this." he said, waiting for Mycroft to move. He didn't.  
>"I am busy. If it's not a matter of national importance, I cannot spare my time for it."<br>Lestrade sighed.  
>"If I said it was about Sherlock, would you come?"<br>Mycroft stiffened. He paused, then stood up, walking over the Lestrade and nodding at the door, waiting for him to go so he could follow.  
>Lestrade smiled.<p>

"There." Lestrade pointed to the pink graffitti on the wall, glowing against the dark background. Mycroft frowned.  
>"Do you know who did this?"<br>"No. I don't think it was John if that's what you're thinking." Lestrade said. Mycroft shook his head.  
>"No, no... I just wanted to pull them in for questioning to see if they knew if Sherlock was alive." of course, he couldn't tell Lestrade he was alive. Not yet.<br>"'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.', eh? What next?" Lestrade commented. Mycroft turned around and looked at the wall behind them.  
>"Maybe 'Richard Brook = FRAUD'?" Mycroft suggested, and Lestrade chuckled weakly.<br>"No, really. Look." Mycroft explained, leaning on his umbrella. Lestrade turned around and saw in blinding White paint the words:  
>Richard Brook = FRAUD<br>"Blimey." Lestrade muttered under his breath.  
>They stood there in silence for a while, staring at each message in turn. Whoever had put them there was not bad, in Lestrade's opinion. He'd let them go if they were caught. He knew that. They were merely standing up for what they believed in. And they believed in Sherlock.<p>

Mycroft sat in his office, thinking about the graffitti. He could tell they were done by different people, but they were both experienced. There were no tags so they obviously didn't want to be recognised, or maybe they wanted all the attention on the message. The first message was done by a 21 year old male, 5.9" and a half. Mycroft was guessing Raz - him and Sherlock had always seemed to get on.  
>He was staring out the window, listening to his own thoughts when he noticed the writing. It was yellow paint this time, written on the wall exactly opposite his office. He knew it was meant for him. Because of it's position and because of what it said:<br>Don't stop believing.


End file.
